


new york, new york

by q_19



Category: Homeland
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-09-22 17:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9618320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/q_19/pseuds/q_19
Summary: s6 scenes. c/q povs, fill-in-the-blanks, additional scenes, post-eps etc.





	1. 6.1 q1

No cheque. 

“Motherfucker,” Quinn mutters, closes the mailbox door. No cheque means no freedom, no release.

He drops the key, has to lean his head against the mailboxes to pick it up. And of course she manages to show up right then, that perfect Carrie timing. 

Every. Fucking. Day. She is fucking relentless. Which he hates, yet admires. But these days he is only able to feel the hate, the resentment. Of taking over her life, hurting her daily. 

He can’t stop it, has no control over his anger. Not when she’s around. 

Sure, the other patients get on his nerves, he gets pissed at the staff. But nothing like when Carrie’s there, when his every nerve is on high alert. 

She comes at this time to check up on him. Like he’s a wayward teenager, a psychotic brother.

He knows what she’s going to say, is already defensive. That she’ll look tired, worn, that he’s the reason why.

It’s the guilt that will never leave him, why he’s so reactive. 

And yet. Every day he waits for her visit, wonders what they will fight about. Doesn’t know what he would do if she stopped coming. But knows it wouldn’t be pretty. 

It’s nearly impossible. To both hate and rely on something so fervently. But Quinn manages it every day. He wants her to give up, just leave him to his misery. The rage isn’t so present when she’s not there. But she’s all he’s got. And he fucking loves her, always will. But that just makes it worse. He can never have her. Doesn’t want this of her, not this way. 

So. Yes he’s not in physical therapy. No he doesn’t see the point. And fucking nagging him about it isn’t making things any better, just makes him more resistant to it all. 

“Talk to me for a minute,” Carrie tries, in her trying-to-be-reasonable voice. “I know you’re frustrated.” 

Sometimes this works, when his walls aren’t on high alert. But he’s already irritated about the cheque, now feels defensive, checked up on. Especially because he’s thinking about what he’s got planned, how pissed off she would be if she knew.

So he instinctively pushes against her calm, doesn’t bother to argue. Because arguing with Carrie never gets him anywhere. Never gets anyone anywhere. 

“Oh that’s what you think,” he says more slowly than necessary, each word dripping in irritation. “Okay I’ll go with that. I’m frustrated. Whatever you say.” 

"Blah blah hardest time, can’t go on, keep trying, breakthroughs blah blah," Carrie says, in that annoying, earnest way. 

He doesn’t know why she does it. When it’s obviously just going to piss him off more. Say pathetically positive things that aren’t true, have no meaning. 

Carrie herself would have hated that shit, and now she’s trying to spew it at him. Like that’s going to help things, fix his fucking brain. 

“Fucking moto-shit!” he snaps at her. Hopes she just gives up for the day, gives him some space to wait for his cheque, get his r and r. 

“I know you want to get out of here but you’re not ready yet,” she says, like he doesn’t know that. That he doesn’t have a fucking choice about being there, that he’s too fucked up to make it far on his own. 

“Would you just stop!” he yells at her. He doesn’t need her to fucking tell him these things, these things that he lives with every fucking minute of every fucking day. She is so fucking persistent, won’t just leave him alone, let him fall. 

She’s exhausting, irritating, relentless. On him, all the time.

Basically, she’s Carrie. 

He can’t find the words, for this thing that she does. But he knows what it’s like, how it fucking feels. 

“You’re being like a dog!” he snarls.

Of course it doesn’t faze her at all, she keeps right on at it. Just cannot ever let it go.

“Quinn, listen,” she tries again. “Just stay with it. You will improve, all sorts of progress will start then...” 

This is the worst of it. Telling him that he will get better. Her endless optimism in the face of clear defeat. 

“I just said stop!” he snaps, interrupting her. “I’m not getting any better.”

This is what she refuses to understand. That this is it, he’s at the end of his rope. At best he hopes to waste some money, get high, forget. Nothing that she has to be around for. In fact, he needs her to leave, so he has no one left to account to. 

He raises his good arm, start to push her towards to wall to emphasize his words, his anger. Carrie backs up as he steps in on her space, until he’s holding her lightly against the pillar. 

“Can’t you get that through your fucking skull?” he adds, staring at her, pressing right up against her.

Carrie stares back at him, fierce as ever. And he thinks fuck, I am never going to be rid of her. It’s who she is, stubborn to a fault. Even now. Worn down by their endless battles, his uncontainable anger. 

“Let me go,” she says.

And therein lies the heart of the problem. He can’t. As much as he’s tried. Pushed as hard as he could. He’s never actually turned her away, refused to see her. 

He’s always been too weak. She’s the strong one, he thinks. It has to be her. 

“Let me go,” he finally says, emphasizing each word. 

He keeps telling her this. Hopes that eventually it will sink in, that she can only do this for so long. He is deadweight, pulling her down with him. Her only choice is to let go, save herself. 

Quinn finally lets go of her then, turns to go back to his room before he’s ‘escorted’ by security yet again. But his mind is still swimming in her, his spine taut in agitation. 

It’s always like this with her. Charged, intense, antagonistic. He can’t be around her without feeling defensive, pathetic. And yet somehow he almost misses her when she’s not there, can’t get her out of his head. 

No wonder he’s a head case, fragile and depressed. 

And all he can do is hope that the cheque shows up soon, that he can get a little break from the bleakness of the hospital, the persistence of Carrie fucking Mathison.


	2. 6.1 c1

She finds the daily bus ride soothing. Time to just look out the window and think. Process the day. Ready herself. 

It’s a constant game of wills. She knows he won’t be in physical therapy because he knows she will be checking up on him. But she’s only checking up on him because he never goes unless she does. 

Carrie sighs. Tries to get back to the calmness of the bus ride but finds that it’s lost now in her daily frustrations. Anyways, it’s her stop soon and she has to gear up for the inevitable battle to come. 

*

Of course he’s not in physical therapy, his therapist tiredly repeating the same thing. “You can’t make people do things they don’t want to do.” 

Carrie holds back her irritation, thinks how her whole life at the the CIA was making people do things they didn’t want to do. Including Quinn, many times. Though of course this is different. It is true she can’t make him get better. No matter how she’s tried so far. He’s resisted her at every turn, refuses to see value in therapy, a proper medication schedule.

But it doesn’t stop her trying. Every single day. Yes she knows she drives him nuts sometimes with her persistence. But this is just how she is when something is driving her. Obsessive, relentless. 

And no matter how many times they fight, butt heads, he will absolutely know that she is there for him, that she is not going to abandon him to this place. That she is going to keep showing up, will not give up on him. 

*

Carrie leaves the physical therapy room, goes to look in likely places. Finds him at the mailboxes, trying to grab his key off the ground. She watches him struggle, tries to contain her irritation. It’s shit like this he needs the therapy for. But all he does is resist, insist he’s done with it. 

“Quinn, you aren’t in physical therapy,” she says.

She knows she sounds like a nagging parent, can’t stop herself even as she does it. 

“Talk to me for a minute,” she says, trying to swallow back her annoyance, remain calm. “I know you’re frustrated.” 

This sometimes works with him, gets past the first layer of resentment. 

But not today. 

“Oh that’s what you think,” he drawls out slowly, each word dripping in irritation. “Okay I’ll go with that. I’m frustrated. Whatever you say.” 

He obviously doesn’t want to talk but she ignores the fact, pushes on.

“The hardest time, when you can’t go on one more second, that’s when you have to keep trying because that’s when breakthroughs happen,” she tries. All the while knowing he isn’t hearing any of it, that it’s just going to annoy him even more. 

Sometimes she can’t help herself. Just has to do it. Tell him that she’s there, that there is a reason for him to get better, get the hell out of here. That it’s within him to do it, to want to. 

But of course he never wants to hear it and they end up angry with each other, each caring all to much about the other to give in. 

“Fucking moto-shit!” he snaps at her. 

Fuck, Carrie thinks. He has a point. She remembers hospitals, bullshit positive affirmations. She hated that shit. But of course she pushes on, refuses to give in.

“I know you want to get out of here but you’re not ready yet,” she tries, fishing for something to motivate him, make him try.

But Quinn is having none of it today, is more agitated than usual even. 

“Would you just stop!” he yells at her. Stares at her in annoyance, with that look he gets when he’s looking for words, impatient with himself. 

“You’re being like a dog!” he adds, stammering a bit with anger. 

She knows exactly what he means, that her persistence drives him nuts. But it’s all she has to give him. 

“Quinn, listen,” she tries again. “Just stay with it. You will improve, all sorts of progress will start then...” 

“I just said stop!” he snaps, interrupting her words. “I’m not getting any better.”

He raises his good arm, start to push her towards to wall to emphasize his words. She lets him do it, backs up as he encroaches on her space.

“Can’t you get that through your fucking skull?” he adds, staring at her angrily, lightly holding her against the pillar. 

As much as she hates this - the constant fighting, his unending frustration and hopelessness - it’s also moments like this she sees those bits of Quinn. His fire, his fight. And as usual, it’s directed at her. 

He stares at her as he holds her up against the wall and she sees his eyes swim with irritation, anger. 

She wants to tell him that everything’s going to be okay, that it’s not always going to be like this. But she knows he’s way beyond his limit of affirmations for the day. So instead she just tells herself to breathe, stop pushing him. 

“Let me go,” she says instead. 

Quinn doesn’t release her right away, keeps looking at her intensely. And for just a moment she sees the struggle in his eyes, how lost he really is. 

“Let me go,” he finally says, emphasizing each word. 

He keeps telling her this. But it’s still heartbreaking each time. That he thinks she would actually do it, that he can wear her down with a negative attitude, a slew of hospital escapes and other antics. 

His point made, Quinn finally lets her go, walks away down the hall. 

*

“I’m okay, he’s frustrated, he’s angry, he thinks he isn’t making progress,” Carrie says as the nurse approaches. 

The nurse doesn’t reply, gets a certain look on her face. 

“What?” she asks, already sensing the answer. 

She knows they think she’s bad for him, hinders his recovery. Agitates him almost every time she’s there. But Carrie’s still sure it’s because of the depth of feeling he’s always had for her, that intensity that’s always been between them. He loses it on her because he can and she won’t leave. Because she understands where he’s at, what he’s been through. That he both does and does not mean it when he yells at her daily. 

But the nurses, the rest of the staff. They don’t know any of this. They just see her nagging him, him flipping out on her. As if it’s anything new. Except it used to be the other way around, mostly. 

“Well, he seemed perfectly fine, earlier that is,” the nurse starts timidly.

“What, so now it’s my fault?” Carrie replies, instantly on the defensive. She’s already just fought with Quinn for the millionth time, does not need to take the blame for it yet again.

“I don’t know,” the nurse says. “It’s just maybe he would have more success without the upset of your visits.

The upset of her visits. They think he’s upset with her. Which he is, in a way. Because she won’t let go, let him fall to pieces. 

“That’s absurd,” she fires back. “Yes he gets upset but at his situation here, he just expresses it to me.”

“We think it’s more than that,” the nurse replies, a bit condescendingly. 

She knew it. Had sensed it. But they had never stated it to her so explicitly. 

“We? wait, who’s we?” she sputters. “His doctors feel this way? 

“His entire treatment team does,” the nurse answers. 

Carrie feels anxiety start to push at the anger, hears the unsaid words. She’s always been so sure he needs her, that this is just more of the back and forth that’s always been between them. And she’s still inclined to think his treatment team just doesn’t like being held accountable, that she makes them do their jobs. 

But still. Her emotions are running high after battling with Quinn, being rebuffed yet again. Can’t help but wonder if they’re right. If she could be hindering his recovery. 

“What, so you’re saying I should stop coming?” she asks, incredulous. She’s all he has, the only one that visits, tries. If she stops coming he’ll think she’s given up on him, that he wasn’t worth the effort. 

“You are here every day,” the nurse replies. “I’m saying you should take a break.”

“I’m his friend, he has no one else,” Carrie argues, still trying to be sure in her convictions. Every day, so he knows she’s always there, no matter what.  

“I know,” the nurse says. “That’s why you should try to listen to what he’s trying to tell you.”

It’s only then that Carrie stops, feels the anxiety push into her chest again. She has been known to delude herself in the past, hold onto things too strongly. She just never thought it was possible with Quinn. That he would want her out of his life, truly not want to see her.

But as much as she doesn’t want to, Carrie has to admit the nurse could be right. That Quinn doesn’t just push because he can, because he knows she will always come back. That he pushes because he really does want to be rid of her, is done with whatever is still between them.

She just doesn’t know what she would do with that, how much it would break her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much s6 c/q interaction already... lots of scenes to come


	3. 6.1 c2/q2

Carrie’s just done arguing with Conlin when her phone buzzes, doubles her irritation level in one go. It’s been quite the couple days - Quinn yelling at her the previous morning, then Otto, and now Conlin. And all the while she’s been thinking about what the nurse said, about taking a break. 

So she’s pissed off. At the interruption in her day, at yet another disappearing act. At the fucking hospital staff for telling her to fuck off when all she wants to do is support his recovery. 

At least it gives her the chance to fire off at the nurse, unleash some of her pent up anger. Though she’s unsure who she’s most angry at - the staff for losing him, Quinn for taking off, or herself for being unable to get through to him. 

Either way it’s satisfying to take it out on the nurses, especially when she sees the fear in Clarence’s eyes as she gives him her best ‘don’t fuck with me’ face. 

Clarence coughs up the details immediately, and then she’s off on his trail. Yet again. She’s lost count of his escapes. And that’s not counting the numerous times he takes off and makes it back, she’s sure. 

Carrie drives impatiently to the location, tries to keep her mind off of what she’s going to find. Sometimes he’s still high when she gets there, usually he’s just sleeping it off. Either way, it makes her equally angry, afraid, heartbroken. The drugs are terrible for his already compromised neurons, actively destroying his chances at recovering. And yet this is all he has right now, his little dose of something to look forward to. A little r and r, some self medication, time away from his shit existence. She understands, even if she ends up just sounding angry, frustrated, or overly helpful, trying to hard. 

So she’s pissed off. Right up until she walks in the room, sees him lying on the bed. And then Carrie panics, as hard as she ever has. There’s blood. And he’s not moving.

“Quinn?” she calls. 

He’s completely limp when she first shakes him, gets no response.

She’s dreamed of this so many times. losing him now after everything he’s been through. He probably thinks it would be a relief, doesn’t understand it would fucking break what little she has left. 

Her heart pounding, she shakes him again, calls his name in desperation. 

Three heartbeats of panic. An eternity. 

And then he stirs. 

Panic recedes, anger returns. It’s incredible how quickly it can happen. The fear of having lost him morphing instantly into full irritation. For making her panic, for being so fucking casual with his life.

“Jesus Christ, get up,” she snaps. “Come on, on your feet. I’m taking you back to the VA.”

Quinn rolls away from her awkwardly, tells her to go away, that he isn’t going back there.

“No?” she asks, knows they’re about to have the same argument as usual. 

“I’m fine on my own,” Quinn slurs. 

“Really. Well what do you plan to do? Where you planning to go?” she asks. He never has any answers. But still he’s stubborn as fuck.

“I dunno,” he replies, crawling out of bed, leaning up against a post to gather his balance.

She wonders what she’d do if he did just walk away from her, refuse to get in the car. 

“You can’t live on the street,” she continues, both irritated and heartbroken all at once. He just keeps doing this, sabotaging his recovery, refusing any help. 

“I’ll figure something out,” he mutters, heads for the door. 

The door is thankfully locked because she’s fairly sure he would have walked straight out, tried to get away from her without either his pants or his shoes. Then would have continued out of sheer stubbornness, self-destructiveness. 

Fuck, she thinks. How have they come to this? 

He drives her up the wall daily, all they do is clash. And yet. It’s still him, and she loves him even now. As he tries to walk away from her half naked, after she’s chased him down to a dingy drug den in the middle of a busy work day.

“You forgetting something?” she asks sarcastically. “Your pants? Shoes?”

Quinn looks down and at least his state of undress registers as a problem. Tells her that his stuff has to be around somewhere.

And she knows that she’ll help him look, wait for him to dress. Then they’ll argue again, before he eventually gets in the car, comes with her to the VA.

All and all, just another spin on the endless downspiraling wheel of caring for him. Another reminder of why she can’t ever give up. 

*

Hands, shaking. A voice. 

Carrie’s calling his name from far away. She sounds scared.

He stirs. Oh fuck. Head blazing, nerves on fire. Everything a blur.

She’s pissed, like usual. When he fucks up, doesn’t make it back. Like the bathtub thing. 

But fuck the VA, he’s not going back there. Says so, brain bleary. 

So many questions, bullshit. Wa wa wa in his ringing ears, too bright eyes. Plans, where to go. Whatever.

He’s not listening, hears it all the same. Same as last time, all the times. 

She won’t let him live on the street. Where he belongs, where it ends. 

But he’s not going back. He has to get out of here, away from her. Stumbles for the door, escape. 

It’s locked, he turns. 

She’s got that look. Annoyed, impatient. 

“Forgetting something?”

“Pants? Shoes?”

Fuck. Fucking Carrie. Always on him, always right. 

She finds them, throws them at him. 

He’s slow. Head throbs. Sits down. 

One leg. The other. Shoes.

Fuck. 

He follows her out silently, head throbbing. Too foggy to fight. Thinks about getting high, getting robbed. It’s a haze, a blur. Concussion maybe, but his head is so fucked anyways. Things too bright, too loud. 

He tries to keep walking when they get to her car. Just ignore her, that constant hum of bullshit coming out of her mouth. 

“Quinn, where are you going?” she hollers, chasing. 

Anywhere but the VA, away from the noise. He’s still got skills, just needs to get away from her, let his head clear. 

She blocks him, grabs his arm. He’s too weak to shake free, his head pounding, vision blurry. 

Her grip is rough at first, then suddenly gentle, concerned.

“Jesus, Quinn,” she says, all anger gone from her voice. “How’s your head?” 

His head is cracking into pieces, it hurts so much. But he can’t admit it, not to her. Not when it’s his own fault, when she’s just going to lecture him for fucking up yet again. 

But she probably knows. Because he lets her walk him back to the car, sits down with relief in the passenger seat. 

And she doesn’t even say anything for most of the drive, not while his eyes are still closed, the headache still raging. Like someone standing in his head, smashing it from the inside. 

Eventually it fades a little, he can open his eyes. The light isn’t as sharp, painful. They’re almost at the hospital by then and his anxiety starts to rise.

She pulls up, finally talks. Reminds him how shitty it all is. His only choice if he won’t let her spend her money on him, put him in some home. Because that’s going to be any better, feeling even shittier about relying on her. 

Then she apologizes, some bullshit about wishing it was different. 

Yeah. Well, he has a lot of fucking wishes, all of them different than this. He wishes he was fucking dead, that she’d just fucking get rid of her burden. 

So he gets out, walks away. Head raging, pissed off at her, at himself, at everything. 

Carrie follows, of course. 

Asks him if she should stop coming by, some shit about his treatment team. She sounds nervous, like this is all her fault. Which it is and it isn’t. 

An opening, a chance to say yes. Stop fucking coming to see me, wasting your time. Being responsible for my bullshit. 

But then she would stop coming, may never come back. Which sometimes he wants. But not really. He relies on her, hates himself for it.

Still. It’s reassuring to know she won’t actually let him disappear, that she’s the one they call. Though he can’t admit it to himself most of the time. 

It’s equally impossible to want her to care and to want her not to care. 

He can’t say yes, won’t admit to no. 

So he says whatever. Thinks he sees relief in her, that she thought he would say yes. 

If only he could. Was strong enough to let go.


	4. 6.1 c3/q3

Quinn refuses to look at her, as if she’s betrayed him by bringing him back here. And the problem is that she feels the same, every time he puts her in this situation. She loves him to death but he is the most frustrating patient imaginable. Refuses to accept help, see any hope. 

And she’s not exactly great at it, being a caregiver. She doesn’t even spend enough time with Frannie. With Quinn, well. Carrie often feels like she has no idea what to do. But she knows she can’t let him go. Not this time. 

So she tries to take their advice, give him some room. Tells him she’ll say good bye there, makes sure he hears her, understands she’ll be back again the next day.

But as she walks to the door, Carrie can’t help but stop and look back. Bite down on her lip in concern, unable to quell the turmoil in her heart. She hates leaving him here, knows how bad it is for him. But he refuses to give her any other options and she doesn’t know what else she can do. 

And then suddenly he leaves the line, starts walking out towards her. 

“Quinn? What are you doing?” she asks, blocking his path. 

He tells her he’s leaving, she tells him he’s not. He tries to get past her but she won’t let him by, grabs him. All the while they argue, struggle.

Quinn doesn’t stop, and they keep at their pushing, yelling match until the guards notice, come and grab him off her. It’s horrifying to watch, no matter how many times she’s seen this sort of scene. Quinn struggles against the guard, tries to get free. 

Then the other guard calls in on the radio for orders and they all hear it. Closed ward, readmission. Quinn cries out, really starts to panic, she can see it in his eyes. Then the second guard grabs him by his stiff arm and he howls, screams in pain, complete desperation.

For a second all she can do is watch it happen, her chest seized in worry, fear. Quinn collapsing in pain, terrified and hurting yet again. 

And then she thinks, fuck. I can’t let this happen; won’t let them do this to him. 

“No, wait. Stop it!” she hollers, until the guards finally hear her, stop struggling with Quinn. 

She steps up to them, her heart pounding. Bends down to get a better look at Quinn, sees that he’s still groaning, hyperventilating, sweating in blind fear. 

“Jesus, Quinn,” she says breathlessly. “Are you okay?” 

It’s a stupid question. He’s obviously still flooded in panic, huddled in pain. Not to mention the drugs, the head wound, his PTSD. 

And already she’s starting to panic herself, wonder what she’s going to do with him. She won’t let them put him back in the locked ward, not after what just happened. It was hard enough on him the first time around. Quinn is not someone that can be locked down, struggles against it to the point where he’s a danger to himself. And she won’t lose him to that, will not let anyone hurt him anymore. 

He doesn’t answer but slowly he calms down, settles his breathing. The guards have backed off warily and she gives them a look that tells them they’re no longer needed, that she has the situation under control. 

Which is total bullshit. No one can control Quinn, that much is clear. But she has to try, is all that he has. 

She bends down, puts her hand on his shoulder nervously. He very rarely allows her to touch him, usually reacts as if he’s been shocked. But he must still be coming down from the panic because he doesn’t resist, not even when she hugs him towards her awkwardly, rubs his shoulder a little. 

“Come on, let’s go,” she says quietly. 

She doesn’t expect a response, wonders what the fuck she’s going to do if he refuses to go with her. So she’s doubly surprised when he looks at her clearly, lets her pull him to his feet.

*

He hears the words, closed ward, readmission and panic hits hard, in every nerve. He struggles, as hard as he can, resists the arms grabbing him.

Then the guard pulls on his paralyzed arm and Quinn howls in pain, rage. The thought of the closed ward again, being locked down. He is beyond hopeless, every cell on fire. 

He struggles furiously even though he knows how it ends. With him pinned down, locked in a padded room. And he’s sure he can’t take it anymore, not again. 

They should just kill him now instead of putting him through that again. He doesn’t take well to confinement, can’t fucking deal with being locked in. 

Panic in his ears, in his throat, in his chest. Pain everywhere else, his head, his arm. He screams and screams, hopeless and terrified. 

He hears her yelling, thinks at first she’s yelling at him. It happens enough, a lot. 

“No wait, stop it!” she hollers. 

I can’t fucking stop it, he thinks. Can’t stop fighting. They’re fucking hurting him and he can’t go back there, can’t fucking take it. 

But then the arms let go. And suddenly she’s right up close, pushing the guards away from him. 

He’s disoriented, raging. His arm screams in pain, and he wants nothing more than to push her away, end things for good. Crawl into a hole and hide from the endless pathetic horror of his existence. 

But he realizes. She stopped them, ended the pain. Saved him from the terror of being locked down. Only Carrie. 

“Jesus, Quinn,” she says breathlessly. “Are you okay?” 

Of course he isn’t. He’s as far from okay as he can be. 

Drug hangover, concussion, PTSD, struggling on the floor with security. 

He had almost lost his mind there, with the threat of the closed ward. 

He can never explain to her how thankful he is, why it makes him all the more resentful. That she can have this effect on him, that he has to rely on her. 

He doesn’t answer but he does calm down. The guards have backed off, now wary of Carrie. She bends down and puts her hand on his shoulder, hugs him towards her.

He wants to push away. But his heart still hammers. Head swims. 

“Come on, let’s go,” she says quietly. 

And as always, he has no choice. Not with her. Even now.


	5. 6.1 q4/c4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Look, you didn’t want to come here, it wasn’t my first choice either." - Carrie 6.2  
> "You said you wanted to live here, she said okay." - Max 6.2 
> 
> how can both statements be true? my attempt at figuring out how it all went down between the VA and Carrie's...

It’s like deja vu. Back in the car, his head pounding, arm still howling. For once Carrie’s silent, lets him sit and stew. 

No VA. A victory of sorts. Even with the humiliation, screaming. Being taken down, needing her to rescue him. 

At least she was there. Made it stop.

His heart is finally starting to slow. Thoughts come back to his head. 

No VA. But he still has Carrie to deal with. 

Minutes later. An eternity of silence, pressure.

“So what are we going to do, Quinn?” 

She sounds exhausted, worried. He hates it. Hates her, hates himself.

The thing is, he doesn’t know. He has no money, his cheque gone. 

On his own he can probably break in somewhere, find a warm bed for now. But then food, drugs, booze. He doesn’t have the motivation to steal even if it’s to live. 

“I’ll figure something out,” he mutters. 

“Like what?” she asks with a sigh. Obviously impatient. But for once she doesn’t push. 

He’s silent again, knows he’s out of options. She won’t let him walk away. And anyways, he has nowhere to go. 

He can feel her looking at him, waiting for an answer that’s not coming. But at least she’s quiet too, no lectures or demands. 

Instead, she keeps waiting until it’s obvious he’s got nothing. Then she sighs again, loudly. Turns on the engine, starts driving, conversation on hold.

He’s quiet on the ride, embarrassed, sullen, relieved. Has no idea where she’s taking him, can’t read her expression. 

They pull up to quiet neighbourhood brownstone, on the older side. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Maybe some private nuthouse she’s been prepping on the side. More guards, restraints. After this last episode, he can’t expect much else. 

But this is no mental hospital, no halfway house. 

Shit.

She parks and they sit in silence again. 

The pressure builds in him until he can’t bear it any longer. It’s a terrible idea, total insanity. There is something seriously fucking wrong with her. 

“Where are we?” he finally asks quietly, afraid of the obvious answer. 

Carrie doesn’t say anything, as if she’s in denial herself. That she’s doing this, something that should be beyond anyone’s best judgement. 

“You’re not doing this,” he adds. Surely she can see what a bad idea this is.

Carrie sighs, turns to look at him. She looks worn, exasperated. 

“Do you have another idea?” she asks. 

They both know he doesn’t, that he would have offered them all up before it came to this. But still, this is not what he wants, can’t handle the implications at all. That she would do this for him, that he would let her. He can’t accept it, won’t allow it. 

But he has nothing, no argument. It’s impossible with Carrie anyways. 

So he just sits and stares at his lap, looks hopelessly for some way out of it. 

“It’s this or a private facility. You have nowhere else to go, so choose, ” Carrie says, after awhile. “I won’t let you sleep on the streets, get arrested breaking in somewhere. And at least it’s not the VA.”

He hates that she’s right. He will not let her pay for him to stay in some fancy mental ward, will do anything to stay out of the VA. Even let her do this. Allow a damaged killer to move in, one trained in violence, prone to episodes of ptsd, self-medicating with whatever he can get his hands on. 

Oh and he loves you yet resents you with a fire that scares even himself. Good thinking, Carrie. Great fucking plan. 

But, as always, she really gives him no choice. Just gives him that look, the one he still can’t resist. Even now

Part concern, part irritation, all Carrie tenacity. 

He sighs, frowns. Does not want to have to say it, admit it. 

Carrie exhales loudly, obviously frustrated, impatient. But she doesn’t look angry, just spent, worried sick. 

He hates doing that to her. Hates his bullshit no choices life. Hates it all, every fucking second of the day. 

But he’s stuck, has to decide. And she’s fucking good, is somehow even making it his choice.

“Here,” he grunts, shaking his head in irritation. 

He can’t believe he’s asking for this, even with her forcing his hand. 

“Until I fi-fi-fi-figure out something else,” he mutters, stumbling on his syllables a little. He’s tired, his head aches. The drugs are still floating around in there too, and he’s crashing from the adrenaline of fighting the guards, struggling in terror. He can’t be bothered to resist anymore, especially when it’s obvious she’s already won.

She doesn’t reply right away and quickly his head flips to panic, like it does now. Wonders if she’s finally thought out her crazy plan, realized what she’s doing. She could already be thinking about how to ship him back to the VA, regretting saving him in the first place. 

And now he’s being a dick about this, this offer he can barely accept. He hates having put her in this position, drops down yet another rung on his sinking self-esteem spiral. 

But the thought of going back to the closed ward stops him from flipping out on her, taking off. She will not let him go, that he knows. But she shouldn’t be doing this either, that’s probably what she’s thinking right now. 

They’re still sitting in the car, the question between them. She hasn’t said anything since he made his choice and now the panic is lodged in his throat. 

He can’t look at her, anxiety climbing up his spine. He wants her to say something, anything. 

“Carrie,” he says. “Please.” 

It’s not a word he even knows anymore, can barely push it out. She turns and looks at him, frowning a little. But then she tilts her head back, sighs. 

“It’s why I brought you here,” she says, gives him a tired smile.

And then she gets out of the car, meets him on the other side.

*

They’re back in the car and she’s trying to think through her options. 

Not that there are many, especially when Quinn’s so uncooperative yet fragile. 

No VA. She hates the place almost as much as he does. Can’t let them lock him in, not after what she’s been through in her life. 

She can feel him finally starting to calm down, his breath evening out. Fuck, she thinks. 

It drives her mental. All the escapes, his belligerent attitude. His non-commitment to therapy, his refusal to improve. 

All she wants is for him to heal, regain some of himself. But he’s so far from it at the moment. Which makes her ache with worry, exhaustion.

“So what are we going to do, Quinn?” she asks, after a long silence.

“I’ll figure something out,” he mutters. 

“Like what?” she asks with a sigh. It’s what he always says. But then what happens when he has a seizure, is all alone? Or gets attacked, robbed, left for dead? 

Leaving her awake, calling hospitals, police stations all night. Like she has many times. 

He’s silent again, must know he’s out of options. She will not let him just walk away. 

She looks at him, wonders if he’s got anything else to say. He doesn’t usually let go of an argument that quickly. But she can see he’s exhausted, hurting. 

And all she wants to do is go home. Make sure he’s safe. 

Carrie sighs. Knows what the only real answer is. 

It’s not like she’s never thought of it before. But he always refused and she didn’t exactly disagree. He’s volatile, unpredictable. And she has Frannie to think about. 

So. Not her first choice. But there aren’t any others. And she thinks she can get him to go for it, if she plays it right. 

He’s quiet on the ride, is probably wondering where the hell she’s taking him. 

When they park in front of her house she sees him look out the window, then look at her with a question in his eyes.

She can almost see him work it through in his head, his synapses clouded with drugs and panic. Feels him tense up as he figures it out, looks at her suspiciously. 

“Where are we?” he asks, sounds anxious.

Carrie doesn’t reply, knows that the answer is obvious by now. He just needs time to accept it, realize there aren’t any other options.

“You’re not doing this,” he says. 

I am, she thinks. This is really happening. It could be a terrible idea, she could be fucking things up royally. But there really isn’t any other choice. 

“Do you have another idea?” she asks. 

They both know he doesn’t, that he would do anything to not accept this. 

But he has nothing, no argument. For once.

So he just sits and stares at his lap, as if the problem will just disappear if he doesn’t acknowledge it. But she knows he gets it, that he’s stuck with her. It’s the way she set it up. And now she just has to reel him in.

“It’s this or a private facility. You have nowhere else to go, so choose, ” she says, after awhile. “I won’t let you sleep on the streets, get arrested breaking in somewhere. And at least it’s not the VA.”

She knows he won’t let her pay for a spot at a private rehab facility, that anything is better than the locked ward at the VA. His hand is forced, he is out of choices. 

She gives him that look. Part concern, part irritation, all determination. 

He sighs, frowns. Clearly does not want to have to say it, admit it. 

Carrie exhales loudly, frustrated. But she isn’t mad at him, just tired, worried. Wants to go in, set him up, go to sleep. 

“Here,” Quinn finally grunts, shaking his head in irritation. 

“Until I fi-fi-fi-figure out something else,” he adds, stumbling on his words. He looks tired, still in pain. Frustrated, resentful.

It’s what she wanted him to say. Still, a flash of anxiety washes up her spine. This is really happening, she thinks again. Quinn. In her basement. 

She wonders how she’s going to manage having him so close. They already battle so intensely when she’s only at the hospital once a day. And now he’ll be here, with her and Frannie. Right downstairs. 

Obviously she had thought of these things on the drive. But none of it was real until this very moment. When he finally gave in and reality crashed down on her. 

She’s knows she should say something, that he’s probably anxious as fuck, having made such a hard choice. But she’s still stuck in her own head, own worries. 

Quinn, in her home. It makes her both incredibly nervous and content, all at once. 

He hasn’t looked at her since he made his choice. Must really be panicking because he finally breaks, exhales tensely. 

“Carrie,” he says. “Please.” 

He breaks her heart everyday. Sometimes on multiple occasions. 

She turns to look at him, wonders what he must have been thinking. For him to actually ask her, politely even. Probably that she was regretting her choice, thinking of ways to get rid of him. 

Fuck, she thinks. Tilts her head back and sighs. 

Sometimes she doesn’t understand it herself. This love she has for him. He’s antagonistic, angry, broken. And she’s never been one to really care, give so much of herself. 

But still. She looks at him and she knows it’s all worth it. Every argument, all the worry. 

“It’s why I brought you here,” she says, gives him a tired smile.

Quinn. In her home. 

She wonders who’s more nervous, her or him.


	6. 6.1 q5/c5

Carrie opens the door and his first impression is that it’s dark, a little run down. Quiet. He’s not sure who’s more anxious, her or him. She points at things, talks fast. Broken stove, microwave. Bedroom, something rental. 

He says he can pay, even though he can’t and she would never let him. Feels the pressure of staying there already, the feeling of relying on her. She lets him win though, doesn’t argue. 

Then she says the thing about her living there upstairs, with her daughter. No drugs, sketchy people, bad behaviour. Guilt floods through him, pushes out the anger. He has tried to fuck this up every which way. But she really is the only one he’s got. And this is more than he could every expect. 

So he makes nice. Tells himself that he can do this. 

“Understood,” he says.

She says something about the toilet, goes on about meds, other bullshit he doesn’t hear. His ears ring, he aches everywhere. Feels like shit about being there, tries not to listen to her go on. And anyways, his head is still swimming, the wallpaper moving.

But Carrie’s energy is frenetic, halfway to panic. He can feel that. It’s good, she should be scared. 

“We’ll figure it out,” she says, like she’s nervous they won’t. 

She finally leaves then, only stopping to tell him to shower. But by that time he’s not really listening, is sunk into the implications of being there. In Carrie’s home. Because he fucked up everything else. 

She leaves. It’s dark. Quiet. 

All of it, sort of a dream. Since she woke him up. 

But it’s real. He’s here. At Carrie’s. 

After fucking it all up again.

He doesn’t get it. Why she’s still there. Why she makes him feel this way. Well. That, he does know. But he hates having to answer to her, hates that she won’t just leave him alone to his bad decisions, miserable life. He’s got nothing to live for, that’s what she refuses to understand. There is nothing here for him except the constant guilt of her nagging, the feeling that he’s just this weight on her life. She has a kid, a job, probably something insane going on. She looks more tired every day. For what. To get yelled at, abused. She makes him crawl inside. In his chest, in his brain. It makes his already fucked up circuits worse. 

Why. he doesn’t get it. It’s Carrie. She blows things up, then leaves it all behind. But not this, not him. 

It makes him so fucking uncomfortable. Internally combustive. That he’s reduced to this. A fucking self destructive gimp, on so many pills he can’t think. Reliant on Carrie for everything, when he can’t stand being cared for, taking anything from her. 

And now he’s here, in her fucking home. Hates himself for it, for giving in. 

But at least it’s not the VA. And he’s sure he’ll fuck things up soon enough, find a way to make her give up on him. 

*

The walls stopped moving, there’s less pain in his head. He’s still blurry, full of half thoughts. Drugs, money, guns, pills, Carrie. 

Carrie’s house. 

He hasn’t thought about it, where she lives. He likes that it’s a bit run down, cracked. 

Looks at the stairs, the door. Time to do a little recon. 

He makes it to the landing, turns the handle. Once, twice. 

Locked. 

Oh. Right. 

Good girl Carrie. 

Fucking crackhead in your house. Lock all the doors. Protect yourself. 

*

She’s putting Frannie to bed, hears the rattle of the basement door handle. It turns a few times, then stops. 

Fuck, she thinks. Her heart freezes for a moment, she feels a pang of sadness mixed with anxiety. 

Wonders why he was trying to come up, isn’t sure either of them is ready for that yet. 

Quinn. In her basement. 

Fuck. 

*

She opens the door slowly. 

He’s sitting, staring. She comes in quietly, doesn’t want to startle him. 

“Quinn?” she says. 

He doesn’t answer. But she can see him sitting there, watching her come down the stairs. 

She walks over, sits down too. 

“Frannie likes to wander down here,” she says, a bit anxiously. 

Wonders if he’ll understand what she means. It’s the truth, really. She’s not afraid of him, doesn’t think he would hurt her even at his worst. But she has to protect Frannie, who has a tendency towards snooping.

Quinn nods slowly but she’s not sure he believes her. He still doesn’t make eye contact, just stares at the wall. 

“Are you hungry? Do you need anything?” she asks.

He finally looks at her then, shakes his head sullenly. 

Fine. Great. She knew it would be a struggle. He hates taking anything from her, relying on anyone. She was surprised he even agreed to live there, no matter how coerced he was. It only went to show how bad it was at the VA, how much he hated the closed ward. 

Fuck. She feels so bad for him all the time, even as she’s frustrated that he refuses to try harder, treats her like an enemy. 

“Okay well, good night then,” she says, standing up to leave. It’s been an exhausting day already and she still has to make new ‘get to school’ plans for Frannie in the morning. That’s going to be an interesting one to explain, she thinks. 

She’s lost in thought, almost completely up the stairs when he finally says something, so quietly she almost doesn’t notice. 

“Coffee?”

Of course. It’s so Quinn that she reflexively smiles, bites her lip. 

Turns and nods. 

“I’ll go make some,” she says. “Come up in a few minutes.” 

Thinks maybe this will work out after all.

*

The door creaks, opens. Light filters in

He’s sitting, staring. The walls are still, it’s calm in the dark.

She comes in quietly but he hears her, each step. 

“Quinn?” she says. 

He doesn’t answer, just sits, watches. She comes down, walks over, sits down too. 

“Frannie likes to wander down here,” she says nervously.

Right, sure. Monster in the basement. 

Quinn nods slowly, still doesn’t look at her, stares at the wall. 

“Are you hungry? Do you need anything?” she asks.

Nothing and everything. That’s his need. 

He finally looks at her, shakes his head. 

She’s quiet, thinking. Looking at him. 

What does he need. 

Peace. Oblivion. 

Carrie. 

“Okay well, good night then,” she says, standing up to go. She sounds tired, done.

She’s halfway gone when he realizes something. He doesn’t want her to leave. That’s new.

Fuck he thinks. Strings of panic. Say something. What. 

“Coffee?”

She stops. Turns and nods. Maybe smiles? 

“I’ll go make some,” she says. “Come up in a few minutes.” 

Up. Bad idea. 

Wants to say no but doesn’t.

Because. Well. 

Because it’s Carrie.


	7. 6.2 c1/m1/q1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introducing MaxPOV...

There are too many pill bottles to count but she only needs one of them. Picks it out and goes to the basement door. 

Locked. Great. 

She knocks, calls his name. Nothing. 

Walks around downstairs, comes to the door. 

He’s sitting there, radio on. She tries to talk to him through the glass. 

“Quinn? You obviously hear me, what’s going on? 

He doesn’t reply, doesn’t even look at her. And she thinks fuck. She doesn’t want to have to nag him, be on him all the time. But he’s falling apart even with all her effort. And she knows she can’t fix it, which just frustrates her all the more. 

“Look you can do what you want, you can do nothing, whatever,” she says, trying to play the reasonable card. “But I’ve your Primidone and you need to take it, okay? Not all the others, we’ll sort that out later. But this one...” 

And then suddenly the mug is coming at her, the glass shattering in front of her.

Fuck, she thinks as she pulls back, flinches away. 

He is so volatile towards her, yet still she had not seen it coming. Her heart pounds for a moment but then she shakes it off, determined to complete her mission. 

Carrie reaches through the broken pane to open the door, then walks in and lets her irritation flow through.

 “Fine, good. I’m the enemy. But you still have to take these or you will start to convulse. You understand?”

He lays down, turns up the radio. 

Carrie sighs, tries to tamp down the rampant anxiety, frustration. Anything she says now will just make things worse. But she still tries to reason with him, can’t stop herself. 

“Look, you didn’t want to come here, it wasn’t my first choice either. But the alternative was the locked ward. That’s where they were going to put you. Remember that?”

No response.

Carrie sighs, puts the pills down by his bed. Walks back upstairs, teeming with agitated thoughts and emotions.

She needs someone to watch him, make sure he’s okay. Especially after the drugs, coming down off meds. And if he doesn’t take the Primidone then she’ll worry all day about him having a seizure at home, by himself. 

Carrie picks up her phone, calls the VA, outpatient rehab, medical outreach, all the numbers down the list. It’s all no resources, not available, too late. And it’s not like anyone can really deal with Quinn when he’s determined to be a fucker. 

She’s down to last resorts, is close to losing her shit. Has just one card left, didn’t want to play it. But it’s really the best solution, just will require some explanation, groveling. 

She dials the number, starts the conversation in a panicked tone. 

“Max, it’s Carrie. Look I need you, it’s sort of an emergency and I called everywhere, no one else can help.” 

A pause. She wonders what Max is thinking, probably that she only calls when she needs something of him. Which is true. Yet he always comes through for her, even after all the horror of Islamabad. 

“What’s the emergency?” he finally asks warily.

Right. She’s not exactly sure how to explain the situation, other than straight up, point blank.

 “Well, it’s Quinn,” she says. “He’s uh.. he’s living in my basement. And coming off drugs. I need someone to keep an eye on him. He just threw a mug at me through the window. I don’t think it’s safe for him to be on his own all day and at least he knows you.”

Again a pause. Then Max, sounding confused, concerned.

“Wait Carrie, back up,” he says. “Quinn is living in your basement?”

It really doesn’t sound like a great idea when she puts it out in the open, tries to explain it. 

“It’s a long story,” she explains. “It was this or the closed ward. I couldn’t let them take him and so I got him to agree that he wanted to come here.”

Max is silent again, probably still trying to process everything she just threw at him. And she knows it’s the best time to make him commit, get the right answer out of him. 

“How soon can you be here?” she asks, basically not giving him a choice. 

Max sighs. 

“I'll be there in thirty,” he says.

“Thanks Max, you are a lifesaver,” Carrie breathes in relief. 

*

His phone rings, he sees that it’s Carrie. 

Instantly Max wonders what she needs, what the emergency is now. Carrie’s been in touch infrequently since she returned from Berlin, mostly for tidbits of info he can slip her from the CIA databases. 

Of course she starts it off exactly as he imagines, blurts out something about an emergency, that she’s called everywhere else.

But this time she’s clearly stressed out, almost panicked. He wonders what it could be that has her so obviously agitated.

“Well, it’s Quinn. He’s uh.. he’s living in my basement and coming off drugs. I need someone to keep an eye on him. He just threw a mug at me, broke the window. I don’t think it’s safe for him to be on his own all day and at least he knows you.”

That was not what he expected. Max stops and rewinds her words. He knew that Quinn was at the VA there, that Carrie visited him daily, that she was maybe in New York for that very reason. But that had never really been real to him until now.

That this was Carrie. Doing this for someone else. 

“Wait Carrie, back up,” he says. “Quinn is living in your basement?”

It’s one thing to visit the guy. Another to invite a damaged assassin home. He needs a moment to think, consider the implications.

“It’s a long story,” she replies. “It was this or the closed ward. I couldn’t let them take him and so I got him to agree that he wanted to come here.”

“How soon can you be here?”

The closed ward. He must be pretty bad off, a danger to himself. Max remembers when they did that to her. Not that he knew at the time, just heard after the fact, through the CIA grapevine. 

This whole things is fucked up, he thinks. Wonders how his simple CIA tech life got hijacked by Carrie’s craziness. Even now, with her out of the company for years. 

He’s never sure how he feels about Carrie, especially after Islamabad. It was so clear then how she used everyone, for her own ends. He’d been so angry at her, blamed her for Fara, for letting Haqqani get away. But then her dad died and Quinn disappeared. She was so fucking broken. It was impossible not to feel for her. 

He wonders what the hell went on between her and Quinn. Back then, up to now. He remembers seeing the sarin video, unable to believe his eyes. Then noting that it was in Berlin, wondering if it was a coincidence. But of course it wasn’t. Nothing is ever a coincidence with Carrie.

And now she wants him to babysit the assassin in her basement, sounds desperate, maybe even a bit manic. He’s not exactly sure, has always been a little afraid of Quinn. He’s just a tech, not qualified for this shit. 

Max feels like he’s been thinking for minutes, that Carrie must have dropped the line. But really all the thoughts had hit him in a mere instant and he’s suddenly struck with multiple realizations. 

That this is Carrie, doing a very un Carrie like thing. That he’s mostly forgiven her. That she’s suffered enough, more than anyone maybe. Well. Except for Quinn. 

Max sighs. 

“I’ll be there in thirty,” he says. Knows there was never really any other choice in the matter, not with Carrie doing the asking. 

*

It’s dark. The radio is on. He likes it loud, likes to zone out to the bullshit, the anger. The radio guy is always raging, pissed off. It’s how Quinn feels too, internally combustive.

Carrie’s at the door. Knocking, with his pills. 

Fucking pills. All the time. He’s done with them. Fuck it. 

He’s out of the hospital. But now he’s here. At Carrie’s. 

In a fucking...what’s that thing....a fucking.......

Pressure cooker. 

Fuck. He woke up tense. On high alert. 

Forgot where he was. Then right. Oh fuck. Fucked things up again. At Carrie’s. 

She’s so fucking good to him. He can’t stand it. 

He wants to express his frustration. At being there. At having to accept her offer. He feels caged in, watched. Beholden. 

As always it makes him want to strike out, explode. And before he knows it, he’s picked up a mug, hucked it at her. 

Oh. Is his first thought. Impulse control. It’s one of those things he’s supposed to be working on. 

But it felt fucking good. The truth for once. 

Of course she still comes in, nags from the inside. Carrie. She does not do this sort of bullshit. Why now. He hates it. Does not want this from her. 

But he’s pathetic. Is in her home, breaking shit. He sinks even deeper. 

It makes him feel so low to be there. He’s reacting by acting out, like it’s her fault somehow. While really he’s worried what she thinks of him, why she would even bring him here.

She’s all that he has. And he hates himself for it, but it would crush him to lose her.

He can’t stop thinking. About her. Fucking fixated. 

What does she think? Does she regret it yet?

Turns up the radio. Feels the rage.

Fucking Carrie. Get out of my fucking head.


	8. 6.2 q2/m2

Quinn comes up as soon as Carrie leaves, gives him an appraising look. So he remembers, Max thinks. 

“What did she say?” he asks immediately. 

“That you’re being kind of an asshole,” Max replies. “Also there’s some pills you need to take. For seizures.”

Quinn seems to consider this, take in the info. 

“I need food,” he states. “In cans.” 

 Then turns, disappears back down the stairs.

Max pauses, hadn’t been sure what to expect. He’d heard a little from Carrie about Quinn’s condition, his deficits. But it was different to see him, remember. 

It is Quinn and it isn’t. Still fixated on Carrie, a little off kilter. 

Max tries to wrap his head around it, Quinn like this. Disabled, fucked up. He’s not usually one to get emotional, affected. Especially about a guy like Quinn who made his own choices, done some fucked up shit. 

But what he went through. It was devastating just to watch the video. 

And now this is all that’s left of the soldier, the assassin. 

It’s crazy, this reality. 

Max shakes his head, searches through the cupboards for cans. 

*

He knows him. Remembers. The mute. Max. 

A little surprised. He nods. 

“What did she say?” Quinn asks. 

He didn’t really mean to throw it. Or maybe he did. 

Fucking Carrie. He’s angry, touchy, confused. 

“That you’re being kind of an asshole,” Max says. “Also there’s some pills you need to take. For seizures. 

An asshole. He’s good at that. Remembers. 

But of course, it’s Carrie. Still on about the pills, worried.

Like he gives a fuck about seizures, any of it. 

But this is okay. Mute Max he can deal with. 

“I need food,” he says. “In cans.”

Cans. For an uncertain future. And what he remembers mostly. 

Walks back downstairs, sits in the dark, tries not to think. 

 *

Max brings the canned food down to the basement, notes the rank smell, the broken glass, the right wing extremist radio show.

Again, the difference is striking of course. The confident smart ass assassin. In charge, always in total control. To this. In shambles, falling apart. Reeking of sweat, grime.

“This is kinda everything in the can department,” Max says, putting the tray down. “I can warm up the soup if you want.”

Quinn studies the cans, doesn’t respond to his offer. 

Max takes out the pills, opens the bottle. 

“And you need to take two of these, every eight hours,” he says, putting two pills in Quinn’s hand. 

Of course Quinn doesn’t take the pills, drops them on the tray. 

Okay, then. He hadn’t expected it to be easy. But he should at least try, do what he can for both Carrie and Quinn.

“Something down here doesn’t smell very good,” he says. “I think it might be you.”

Maybe he can get the guy to shower, Max thinks. It would be a start at least. 

But Quinn just looks at him, smartly replies “I think it might be you.”

Well, that hasn’t changed, Max thinks. Still a smartass. 

“Why not take a shower?” he tries again. 

“Just get dirty again,” Quinn answers, obviously unwilling to budge on the topic. 

Well, his efforts haven’t been much better than Carrie’s, Max thinks. But at least Quinn hasn’t hurled anything at him yet. 

He walks over to the door, looks at the broken glass. Hears Carrie in his head saying “I’m just telling myself it’s the drugs”. 

Maybe. But probably not. Quinn has at least spoken to him, been somewhat civil even. Obviously still has a Carrie thing though, which must be making him all kinds of fucked up. 

“So what happened?” he asks, wonders what Quinn’s explanation will be.

“Someone was trying to break in,” Quinn says slowly, dully.

He’s pretty sure Quinn’s playing dumb, just doesn’t want to talk about it. And yeah, the guy has a right to be fucked up, depressed. But right now Max is actually worried for Carrie, her choice to take him in. it’s so unlike her, he doesn’t want it to hurt her. Especially when it comes to Quinn, her one real weakness. 

So Max pushes a bit, tries to get through the bullshit.

“Yeah, Carrie was,” he says. “Only she can’t really break in because it’s her house. You know that right? You’re in Carrie’s house? You said you wanted to live here, she said okay. So why are you giving her such a hard time?”

Quinn turns on the radio, literally trying to tune him out. Lies back, avoids eye contact. Obviously doesn’t want to hear about Carrie, talk about anything.

Max sighs, gets what Carrie’s been dealing with. And this is just the mild dose, he knows.

The gas, the stroke, the psych ward. Of course he’s angry, resentful. And Max has no real desire to be here, in the middle of things. Still has his own reasons to be annoyed with Carrie, doesn’t like being used. The same way she uses everyone. 

Except for Quinn, at least not anymore, he thinks.

This is one of the few times he’s seen her care. It’s weird. She sounded frenetic on the phone. Then freaking out about the seizure pills when he was thinking what the fuck he threw a glass at you? In the moment that seemed the more important part, not the meds. 

But she’s so fixated on Quinn, wanting him to get better. Needing it. It’s like she won’t accept anything else even though he’s so obviously decided it’s over. 

So Max can’t help but feel for her. Realize how much Carrie has grown, changed. And how much Quinn must mean to her if she’s still here for him, dealing with all his shit. 

*

Max comes down the stairs, has cans.

Quinn inspects, judges value. Max goes on about pills, Carrie-talk. Fuck that. 

“Something down here doesn’t smell very good, I think it might be you.” 

That shit again. Forget it. Deflect.

“I think it might be you.” 

“Why not take a shower?” 

A million reasons. He can’t. Skin crawls. Panic seeps. 

“Just get dirty again.” 

Bullshit answers. So easy. 

Max gives up, walks to the door. 

“So what happened?”

I snapped. Lost the battle. With anger, frustration, self-hate. 

“Someone was trying to break in,” he says slowly, dully.

Bullshit answers. He can do it all day.

“Yeah, Carrie was,” he says. “Only she can’t really break in because it’s her house. You know that right? You’re in Carrie’s house? You said you wanted to live here, she said okay. So why are you giving her such a hard time?”

Good question, he thinks. Why. 

Because he can’t handle it. Being taken care of. Being in her house. Being coddled. 

Can’t even think about it, about Carrie. Can’t stop thinking about it, about Carrie. 

He turns on the radio, tries to tune out the thoughts. 

Hatred of existence. Being there. Hurting her. Being him. Fucked up.

Max is right. He’s an asshole. that’s clear. 

Maybe it’ll be enough. To chase her off. Put an end to his agony.


	9. 6.2 q3/m3

He’s on the floor. 

Bright, buzzing, talking. 

“No hospital,” he mutters. Sits up.

“Grand mal seizure, check for head injury.” 

Shit. Seizure. Pills. Fuck.

Head pounds, swims. Lights blur, smear. 

He’s tired, hurts. 

“Do you know where you are?” 

“I understand you’d rather not go to the hospital. You want to tell me why?” 

No hospital, he fucked up. Carrie can’t know. Lock him down. Fuck. 

“Because I’m fine.”

Not fine. Eyes. Ow. Ears. Ring. Head. Thuds. 

Blah blah. Take you in, EEG. 

But no hospital. No way.

“Max will take care of me.” 

Bullshit. Doesn’t like it. But no hospital. 

Don’t like it. Release. AMA. Sign.

She leaves. 

“You okay?” 

He should have taken the fucking meds. Fucking pathetic, useless body, brain. 

“I’m a fucking mutant, no I’m not okay.”

Fuck. She’ll be pissed, worried. Fucking pills. Fucking Carrie. 

“Don’t tell Carrie.” 

*

“Don’t tell Carrie.”

They both know that isn’t going to happen. But Max agrees, doesn’t need the argument. 

He pays for the beer and wipes, follows Quinn out the door. Walks a little behind him, lets him have his space. 

Quinn looks a little shaky, slow. But he charges ahead anyways, makes it to Carrie’s and tries to close the door in Max’s face. 

“Fuck off,” he mutters, through the broken pane. 

Quinn is obviously tired, heads straight for the bed and collapses on it, head buried in a pillow. 

Max opens the door, follows him in. 

“I just want to make sure you’re ok,” he says. Carrie’s already going to be pissed at him, he doesn’t need any more fuck ups, medical emergencies on his watch. 

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter,” Quinn says, his words coming out slow, heavy. 

“Actually, you kind of do. Or you’d be in the hospital right now,” Max replies, matter of factly. It’s what you get for being a dick, refusing to take your pills, trying to piss Carrie off. 

Quinn doesn’t reply, is clearly trying to ignore the conversation. But Max thinks maybe this is the time to talk to the guy, when he’s tired, doesn’t have the energy to fight back. 

“Look, we both know how she is. I told her I’d watch out for you,” he says. “I’m already going to be in shit for not calling her now.”

Which is the truth really. But Carrie didn’t need to panic about it in the middle of her day and her presence would have just made things worse, more tense. So he had made an executive decision, what was best for everyone. 

“Why?” Quinn asks, sounds exhausted. 

He’s not entirely sure what Quinn is asking. But regardless, the answer is pretty much the same. 

“She’s just worried about you,” he says. More than he’s ever seen her worry really. And that’s saying quite a bit. 

“Why?” he asks again, just as tiredly. 

Well because you’ve been doing drugs, not going to therapy, not taking your meds, throwing shit at her. Max thinks. And still she obviously loves you, would never do this for any other reason. It’s Carrie. She is never this selfless. 

But these aren’t exactly the things to say to Quinn right now. Though it would be good to get him thinking about Carrie, about what she’s been through. And then Max starts to wonder what Quinn knows, remembers. Of himself, of her. 

Maybe this is part of the problem, he thinks. Maybe he really doesn’t know. 

And it’s not exactly his place to say. But maybe he can help Quinn understand, at least get him thinking. 

“She’s glad you’re alive,” Max says. It sounds stupid, but sometimes the obvious has to be said. 

“I’m not,” Quinn replies. 

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that,” Max answers. It’s pretty clear that Quinn is in a fucking dark place, doesn’t see any hope of anything. 

But don’t you see? Max thinks. Yeah it’s fucked up, not exactly what you wanted. But she finally gets it. 

But Quinn is too depressed to see it, get it. And while Max isn’t exactly the go to guy for relationship help, he thinks he might be the only one in the position to help in this particular situation. 

Because he remembers. Islamabad, particularly. Quinn raging about the kid. The way he looked at her. 

Then Carrie, desperate. In a way he’d never seen. 

“Do you remember? Before?” Max asks. 

There’s a long pause, the question hangs in the air.

“Not everything. Mostly,” Quinn finally answers.

And now Max pauses, isn’t sure how to say this, make the point without saying the words. 

“Carrie was kind of brutal. Selfish,” Max says. 

“Yeah,” Quinn mutters. 

“Yeah well. Think about it,” Max answers. “Did she ever put anyone else first?” 

It’s the only way he can think to put it. To help Quinn figure it out. Carrie doesn’t ever put anyone else first. 

Except him. 

Max saw it, even in Islamabad. But this, it just made it too obvious. 

Quinn doesn’t respond, looks lost in thought. Lies back in the bed, closes his eyes. 

Max sighs, relieved. He didn’t completely fuck up the babysitting gig. And maybe he even got Quinn thinking about Carrie, why she’s doing all this. 

He walks up the stairs, sits down and shakes his head. 

Babysitting a damaged assassin, providing relationship counselling for spies. This is what happens when Carrie’s around. Sometimes he regrets having ever met her, gotten tangled up in all her shit. And then she calls, asks him to do something ridiculous. And they both know he’ll do it, because of course he will. It’s Carrie. 

And that’s why he’s here. Supervising a killer in her basement. Hoping that they figure their shit out, find a way to understand each other for once.

*  
“Don’t tell Carrie.”

They both know that isn’t going to happen. But Max agrees anyways, like he does. 

His fucking legs jitter, shake. Hold on, he says to himself. Two blocks. 

Head pounds. So bright. One foot. Drag. Another step. Another. 

Fucking dizzy. 

Stairs. Carrie’s. Closes the door.

Max follows, he says “fuck off.” 

Tired, weak. 

Lies down. Closes his eyes. 

Think. 

Max comes in, says just want to make sure you’re ok.

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” 

The words heavy, fuzzy. Slow. 

“Actually, you kind of do. Or you’d be in the hospital right now.”

Fucking Max. Fuck off. 

“Look, we both know how she is, I told her I’d watch out for you. I’m already going to be in shit for not calling her now.”

“Why?” he asks, exhausted. 

Maybe Max knows. Why the fuck she does it

“She’s just worried about you.”

Yeah. He’s worried about him. It’s not her problem.

“She’s glad you’re alive.”

Alive. This isn’t life. Dependent on others. On Carrie. 

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that.” 

At least Max sees, none of the fucking moto shit. 

A pause. Quiet. He fades. 

“Do you remember? Before?” Max asks. 

He’s surprised. Doesn’t talk about it. 

Thinks.

“Not everything. Mostly.” he says. 

He remembers. Old things more. Berlin, those memories are fucked. 

“Carrie was kind of brutal. Selfish,” Max says. 

Okay yeah. That’s what he remembers too. Why he’s so confused. 

“Yeah,” he mutters. 

“Yeah well. Think about it,” Max answers. “Did she ever put anyone else first?”

It breaks his brain all over again. He just doesn’t know. 

Why she does it. 

But Max is telling him something. He can tell through the fuzz. That there is a why. A reason. 

But still. He doesn’t know, falls asleep wondering.


	10. 6.2 c2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of discussion about what this scene meant from both c and q povs, this is how I understood it...

“Carrie.” 

He says her name. He doesn’t do that very often anymore. 

But the tone, the cadence of it is one of the few things that hasn’t changed. It reminds her of the past, sits in her chest. Tells her something’s up. 

“How was your day?” 

He is completely different than in the morning, body language relaxed in a way she hasn’t seen in a long time. He was never relaxed at the hospital, always on edge. 

Maybe it was the drugs, she thinks. Or the seizure. Fuck, he makes her worry.

“Well it started with someone throwing a coffee mug at me and it went downhill from there,” she says, a bit smartly. 

“How was yours?” she adds, wonders what he will say, if he will admit to what happened.

Quinn’s quiet for a moment, then looks at her thoughtfully, finally mutters a question. 

“What happened to me?”

“Apparently you had a seizure,” Carrie replies, even though she’s not supposed to know. But he doesn’t get upset, shakes his head.

“No, before that,” he says. 

Now she’s confused, has no idea what he means. Tries to think of what’s been going on, tells him that he got into an altercation at the hospital, that they agreed it would be best if he came to live there. 

“No, before that,” he repeats. “Before this.” 

He picks up his stiff left hand and suddenly her chest freezes, her head misfires.

Is he really asking this? 

How can he not know?

“You don’t know?” she asks, shocked. 

“Not exactly,” he replies. 

It’s true they have never talked about it. He hadn’t wanted to talk to her much at all really. She never knew exactly what he remembered and then he came to New York, the locked ward at the VA hospital. She just thought he must have heard, been told. Everyone has seen the video. 

But then again, that’s different than knowing. The details. 

Not very many people know those. 

She remembers being there, on the floor. Crying her eyes out. Has to push that thought out of her mind or she’ll start sobbing, right here in front of him. She has to be the strong one right now, something solid for him to back up on. 

But how to tell him? She feels totally unprepared. Still, she has to say something, start somewhere.

“You came very close to dying. Very very close. You must know that,” she says. 

How can he not? 

Quinn looks at her blankly, doesn’t reply. And only then does she really realize he doesn’t know, at least not entirely. He certainly doesn’t know she found him in that room. What happened in the ambulance afterwards. 

Shit, Carrie thinks. Did not see this conversation coming. Feels her emotions start to escape, seep through the wall between them. She’s not sure she’s ready. But if he is, then she has to be, has to keep it together for him. 

“There’s a video. It was all over the internet,” she says. “You’ve really never seen it?”

God. This is fucked up, she thinks. She’s so fucking nervous to talk about it with him, just thought it was something he would never want to do. Especially not with her, not right now. 

Again Quinn’s quiet for a moment, thinking. Then finally he says, “No, I never wanted to.”

Well fuck. Obviously, she thinks. Wonders what she would do in his place. It’s almost too fucked up to even think about.

“Of course,” she says. 

“But I want to now,” he replies. 

Oh. 

Fuck. 

She can’t believe he wants to do this right now, with her. He hasn’t even talked to her civilly in ages, goes around pretending he doesn’t have any soft spots, emotions other than anger. 

She doesn’t want to do this, feels sick just at the thought. But she also can’t lose this moment with him, this window of openness. 

Fuck. 

Carrie pulls out her phone, walks over to the bed. Sits beside him, so close she can feel him breathe. 

She’s seen it so many times. She never wants to see it again. 

She doesn’t want him to watch it. Doesn’t want to see him watch it. Is absolutely astounded that he’s asking this of her. 

Above all she just doesn’t want to put him through it. But obviously he has the right to ask, has a right to know. 

Carrie stalls a bit, tells him that it was in Berlin, that the terrorist cell poisoned him, left him for dead. 

It’s time. But she can’t do it, is absolutely not ready. Can barely breathe in the tension.

But then Quinn reaches over, touches her on the arm. Looks at her calmly. 

“Just play it,” he says. And again she remembers exactly how he was. Reassuring her, telling her she was okay. 

And here he is, out from under all the drugs, anger, resentment. Right here, so close.

They’re actually going to do this.

Carrie presses play.

She can’t really watch the video, has it permanently etched in her brain already. So she mostly watches him, her heart frozen in worry about how he will react. 

“You’ve really never seen this?” she asks. 

But it’s clear he hasn’t by how intently he focuses in. He stays stoic, expressionless for awhile, like he can’t quite process what he’s seeing. She remembers exactly that feeling - being in that cafe, seeing it on the tv screen, not believing her eyes at first. 

But eventually Quinn flinches, bites something back as they watch him fall to the ground, frothing. And she remembers that too, watching with Astrid, turning her head, not wanting to see. 

She hurts so badly for him. Her broken soldier, angry and afraid. Watching himself die. 

Carrie remembers watching the video on repeat, torturing herself. Thinking he was dead, how shattered she had been.

She still can’t believe that they found him in time, that she was granted a fucking miracle. 

She looks at Quinn, feels herself crumbling, her emotional wall collapsing. But she has to hold it together, be here for him. Let him process.

And yet. He has to know, how hard she tried. 

So she tells him about watching the video hundreds of times, about the tiles that led her to him. Remembers how desperate she was to find him, even though she thought he was gone. 

She thinks she sees something in his eyes, some recognition of what she went through, how much it affected her. So she continues on. Tells him about the ambulance, that he flat lined en route.

“For three whole minutes you were dead,” she says, choking on the memory.

“It was so close.”

She remembers panicking, barely managing not to yell at the German EMTs. The sound of his heartbeat on the monitor when they got him back. How her own heart had seemed to only start beating again then too.

She had almost passed out from the stress, adrenaline, relief. Then almost felt manic after from the rush, the hyperawareness. 

“But you saved me,” he says.

“Yes,” she replies, filled with endless relief, thankfulness that he’s here, with her. Alive, talking, safe. 

“Why?” he asks.

It’s not at all what she expected, so completely contrary to her own thoughts. Saving him was her miracle, an answered prayer. 

But Quinn looks and sounds so genuinely confused, asks a millions questions with one word.

In one sense she knows he’s asking why they bothered to save him, that he thinks he’d be better off dead.

She’s only really starting to understand how bad it’s been for him, that he was hurting in a way he couldn’t express to her. His self-loathing, worthlessness at an all time low. And that’s saying a lot for Quinn. 

But he’s also asking why she’s there, why she would save him over and over, why he’s in her basement, why any of this happened in the first place, why he would even want this life. 

No wonder he’s so agitated, tries endlessly to push her away.

It’s almost impossible for her to believe that he really doesn’t know. Any of this. But particularly this. 

Why did I save you?

I thought you were dead. I cried so hard and so long. I would have stopped at nothing, tracked those fucking jihadis to the ends of the earth. You. Who’s done so much for me, saved me so many times. Who never asked for anything in return. Except once and I fucked it up. And really that lead to this, where I fucked it up again. Let them wake you up. Almost lost you again. Almost lost all hope. 

And I will never never let go of this, let go of you. 

She is blown away. Devastated that he doesn’t know. 

“Why?” she says. Asks it back at him, thinks he must fucking know. 

She has held it together this long but now the tears are slipping through, her heart fucking shattering all over again.

“Why?” she says again, unable to form any other words. 

It’s not something she can say, articulate at all. Not while her heart is in shreds, her emotional boundaries severely compromised.

How can he not know? How much he fucking means to her. Why she puts up with all the bullshit, flying objects. Hounds him endlessly, worries about him every other minute of her day. 

He is a part of her in a way she can’t put to words, can’t ever explain. She can’t fathom letting him go, especially after almost losing him so many times in Berlin. 

Her tears are unstoppable now and she apologizes to a stunned looking Quinn. She isn’t like this with him, manages to hold it back so not to put any more weight on him. 

But for once he’s not angry, resentful. Just looks completely bewildered, shocked at her response. Which just makes it worse for her. That he so obviously doesn’t know. And that she hasn’t the words, the capacity to tell him. 

They were never good at talking, her particularly. But she puts her hand on his chest, on top of his heart. And he lets her do it, doesn’t resist. They are so close, she feels his heart beating through his dirty sweatshirt. It’s as intimate a moment as she’s ever had with him and she can only hope he understands what she’s trying to tell him. 

Because she’s hit her emotional overload point, wasn’t ready for any of this at all. Gets up, still unable to form words. Walks up the stairs, tries futilely to stop crying.


	11. 6.2 q4

Quinn wakes to Max leaving, voices upstairs. He remembers hearing them that morning, getting agitated at what Carrie might be saying about him. 

Now he can’t even really say what made him throw the mug. Just an overwhelming feeling of being watched, feeling guilty, pathetic, angry, frustrated. Above all he can’t understand why she bothers with all of his bullshit. 

In a way he’s testing her, pushing her. He doesn’t want to be here. At Carrie’s. He already feels tense enough whenever she’s around. Now he’s at her place, in her space. Her burden. 

But the day has left him tired, thoughtful. Having the mute, Max around. Now isn’t that a role reversal. But at least it was someone that knew him, could give it to him straight. 

What did she say.

That you’re being kind of an asshole. And that you need to take some pills. For seizures. 

She is unstoppable. He threw a fucking coffee mug at her and she just opened the door, left him his meds. 

And fucking Max. Making him think about her, asking him why he’s giving her such a hard time.

Because I want her to stop fucking caring. I want her to give up like I have. 

He was definitely being an asshole. It was a test. But she just won’t stop giving a shit. 

Always the same questions. Why would she do this? Why does she care?

He’s been thinking a lot. It’s quiet here. 

Thinking about things said. Not being such an asshole, being so hard on her.

Until now, at the VA. It was just survival. The closed ward. restraints, the constant noise, rough treatment, just trying to make it through daily. She had shown up even though he didn’t want her to see him that way. He had been pissed at that, her persistence. He can’t stand being so fucked up around her, so pathetic. 

Even when he ‘graduated’ to the open ward. She set him off constantly - he just felt so fucking tense around her. With her bullshit hope, as if he had some sort of life to get back to. 

When the best he could hope for was being put up in her basement, being babysat by their former colleagues. A constant drain, volatile and dangerous. 

So he’s been thinking a lot, as much as his frayed neurons will allow. And what it keeps coming down to is that he just doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what happened, why he’s like this, why she’s still here.

He’s wondered it all a million times. Has gotten snippets of information from flashbacks, dreams, moments of memory. And of course people have told him about the video. Watching it, how bad it was. 

Until now he didn’t want to know about that part, didn’t think he could do it. Watch himself die. 

Or maybe he thought he would watch it and long for that death. There were too many what ifs. Gruesome curiousity mixed with fear, avoidance. So he knew it was there, just had never touched it. 

And then today. He had awoken from the seizure, unsure of anything. It had taken him a moment to remember how things were, that he was a gimp, a mental case. And in that moment he had seen Max, remembered him, asked him what happened. And it had been two questions in one, a split between realities. 

Then Max said you had a seizure and even in a post seizure fog Quinn remembered the real reality. That he was fucked up, that Max didn’t have the answers, not to the question he was really asking. Though the mute had been trying to tell him something, that much he understood.

Afterwards he had a glancing thought, to ask Max about the video. But he didn’t, because even then he had known. This was something he had to do with her. 

So now. 

Quinn hears her come downstairs. Readies himself. 

“Carrie,” he says. 

“How was your day?” 

Like this is normal. Him in bed in her basement, greeting her after work. 

“Well it started with someone throwing a coffee mug at me and it went downhill from there,” she says. 

She doesn’t let him off easy, he likes that. Calls him on his shit. Even though it just brings him down even further, reminds him of how fucked up he is. 

But it’s so Carrie, exactly as he remembers. Except that the Carrie he remembers would never put him up in her house, try so hard to fix what’s broken. 

“How was yours?” she asks. 

A fucking roller coaster ride, he thinks. Angry, embarrassed, overwhelmed, that morning. He hated being indebted to her, told to take his meds. He didn’t want to be there, had no other choice. But he could choose to not talk to her, make her kick him out. Test her resolve.

Then the goddamned seizure, all his confusion at waking up. Having Max around, talking bullshit. 

And now, it’s a blur. Like everything in his head. 

But he’s thinking. A lot. Has questions. 

The how, the what. He has to know. And this is finally the time. 

“What happened to me?” he asks.

“Apparently you had a seizure,” she says. 

Quinn knows he isn’t asking the question right, doesn’t know how to say it. 

“No, before that,” he tries.

He sees her strain for understanding, says something about the VA, about agreeing to live at her place. No, he thinks, she isn’t getting it. He’s asking something else, something he can’t put to words.

“No, before that, he repeats. “Before this.”

He uses his good arm to pick up his useless left hand, watches as the expression on her face changes to confusion, concern. 

“You don’t know?” she asks, obviously surprised.

“Not exactly,” he says.

Which is the truth. He just knows he fucked up, got gassed, that there was a video, everyone’s seen it. That he had a stroke, that’s why his brain was so messed up, his body fucked. 

But he doesn’t know exactly what happened, only remembers bits. Getting shot, worrying about Carrie. Then the doctor, some traveling around. 

What he really doesn’t know is what she has to do with any of it. He remembers leaving, trying to keep her out of it all. But then she was there when he woke up and hasn’t left since. 

“You came very close to dying. Very very close,” she says.

He watches her closely. Has a fixation on her that he can’t let go of. It’s what causes all the tension, explosiveness. 

Usually she’s so fucking worried about him he’s already on edge but tonight it’s different. She’s telling him the truth and he can see that she’s remembering it herself. 

Her voice catches as she says it and he’s surprised, especially after so long. He’s made it, survived to make her life a thankless hell. 

“There’s a video. It was all over the internet,” she says. “You’ve never seen it?”

He hasn’t. Almost did a couple times but couldn’t make himself press play. And he knows now it’s because he couldn’t do it alone. Needs the security of someone else. In case he shatters, breaks apart.

“No, I didn’t want to,” he says. Wasn’t ready to; isn’t sure he is now. But something has gotten into him today. He is determined to know; and she’s the only one he can ask. 

“But I do now.” 

Apprehension, worry, cover her but she doesn’t argue. He’s surprised. 

Instead she pulls out her phone. Comes over and sits close. Closer than ever. Other than pulling him out of drug dens, off the floor.

So close. He should have major anxiety, be crawling in tenseness. 

But she is nervous enough for two, it comes out of her skin. 

She stalls. Tells him it was in Berlin, that the cell poisoned him, left him for dead. 

She’s so obviously scared, worried. Doesn’t want to show him.

Somehow it brings him calmness. He can be the ready one for once, let her know it’s okay.

“Just play it,” he says, touches her on the arm. It’s a small movement, muscle memory maybe. But normal suddenly; something he would do. 

She presses play. 

He’s instantly transfixed.

Concentrate. Focus. That’s him, dying.

Just an image at first, he doesn’t feel it. It isn’t him but it is. What he was, who he remembers. 

“You’ve really never seen this?”

He’s really never seen it.

Couldn’t do it. Alone, angry, afraid. 

He’s writhing, frothing. pissing himself.

This happened. He’s there. But here too, with Carrie. 

She says something. Hundreds of time. Trying to find him. 

She’s so close, watching him.

Quinn watches himself fall, collapse. 

Oh shit. 

Thinks he remembers faintly. Dying. Like hitting the ground from the seizure. Maybe that’s why he needed to see this now.

Something twangs. Inside his chest, his head. 

A connection. 

He’s dying. That’s him. 

A tear slips. For the past. 

For himself, what’s lost.

Sadness. That’s new. 

Always anger, frustration, hate, loathing, resentment. 

Carrie says something. Tiles, finding him. 

He’s still dead though. He watched it, feels it.

She’s still talking. Ambulance. flat-lined. Three whole minutes. 

She chokes on the words, still they don’t go in.

Pictures, thoughts. On the floor of that chamber, dead. EMTs pounding on his chest, defibrillators. Carrie, freaking out. 

All he can wonder is why he didn’t die in that chamber, in that ambulance. When he was meant to. Why did you bother? Don’t you understand I was gone?

“But you saved me,” he says. For what? 

“Yes,” she answers. 

“Why?” he asks.

He doesn’t want this life, didn’t even really want his other one. 

Why would they bother? Why does she bother? 

Caring, taking him in, not letting him fall apart. 

He was never anything to her, got over it in Syria. No one is anything to Carrie, it’s not how she is. He understands, lived it. Until her. 

He stares. Watches. 

She looks as confused as he feels. 

“Why?” she asks back, starts to cry. 

What the fuck is happening. Neurons firing wildly, trying to connect emotion to understanding. 

Carrie’s upset. Very. 

Crying. But why? 

What did he say? His short term memory is fucked sometimes.

But he remembers this. All he asked was why. 

She doesn’t cry. No matter what he throws. Abuse, resentment, mugs. 

But now, she’s crying hard, harder than he’s ever seen. 

“Why?” she repeats.

Like he should understand, get it. But he doesn’t. 

Why did she save him? Everyone would be better off if he was dead. No life, just a burden. He absolutely hates it, all of it. Dragging her down, being so fucking pathetic. Being babysat. So he pisses her off, refuses help. even now. Living at her fucking house. Why the fuck did she even suggest it. 

And yet.

She’s sobbing, apologizing. 

Still he doesn’t know, what the tears say. Never was good with emotions. And now, he’s a shitshow of anger, shame, self hate. 

He doesn’t know why she’s crying. 

But there is something happening in him. Doesn’t want to upset her anymore, has been doing it for so long. 

Just that thought, that feeling. Being upset because Carrie is. He remembers it, yet it’s also new; opens up another realization.

It’s because of him. But not because he was being an asshole.

She doesn’t say anything, clearly can’t. 

Then her hand is on his chest, right over his heart. 

A different jolt. He’s stunned, in emotional shock. 

She’s telling him something and he knows it’s important. It’s why his guard is so far down. 

It’s a long moment, her hand so warm, comforting. He struggles to breathe, process thoughts, emotions. 

She’s really that upset thinking about losing him. 

He doesn’t get it, just complicates her life, add to her stress. Wallows in her basement, break things. 

But Carrie’s still crying as she stands, leaves. And he’s still completely stunned, neurons blazing, her hand burned into him. 

He can still feel her touch, can’t remember ever seeing her that upset.

His thoughts move so slowly now, glacial.

There must be another answer. He’s thinking hard, needs to understand. 

She saved him, did all of this shit for him because?

Why the fuck would she do this?

He still feels her hand, sees her tears. 

As confused as he ever was. Lost between her lack of words, her telling actions.

And then, he glimpses it, out of nowhere.

It’s him. 

She’s upset because he didn’t know, still doesn’t really know. 

That he’s somehow important to her, that she needs him. 

He doesn’t understand it - his life is worth nothing, not to him.

But to Carrie. He just never thought... thought he could matter.

She didn’t actually say anything but suddenly he sees. How much this has been hurting her. 

It’s a lot to process. He stays there for a long time, eyes wide open, overcome. Thinking about Carrie, what he’s just realized. 

Thinking about her crying, what it felt like. 

Instead of being angry, resentful. He finally got it. 

She cares about him. Enough to make her that upset. Cry like that. 

More incredibly, it matters to him. A feeling deep within, one he barely recognizes.

He wants her to care. Underneath all the self-loathing, resistance to keep her away from his shameful condition, his pathetic inabilities. 

He wouldn’t be here without her and he knows it. 

It’s why he didn’t ban her visits, even when completely locked out in anger, hatred at his body, the VA, Carrie. 

After all that abuse. She still cares this much.

He hadn’t seen that coming.

Fuck.


End file.
